The D’dôdô-Sette stared, unable to render astonishment into anything practical.
“Might I have your autograph?” the dog asked, looking up from his gloves, and surprised at the D’dôdô-Sette’s fuming.
“What did you say?”
“Your autograph. May I have your autograph?”
The D’dôdô-Sette went a colour that often precedes the need for urgent medical attention. “You want my autograph?”
“Yes. I assume you can write?”
“What?”
“Because of your poems, I assume you can write? For an autograph, it’s a sort of prerequisite.”
“Of course I can write!”
“Oh. Marvellous. Well, that certainly makes things easier.”
The D’dôdôSette continued staring.
“So can I?” the posh dog asked, waggling a scrap of paper at him.
“You want my autograph,” the D’dôdôSette growled, “despite my recital being little more t
